careful calibration
by sunspots and raindrops
Summary: Happy endings don't always have to mean vanquishing evil or getting married or riding off into the sunset; sometimes, happily ever after is just having a pair of open arms to come home to. — [8059 slash, post-canon, no spoilers.]
1. one

_._

 _from the nightclub  
_ _to the bedroom floor:_

 _I never felt quite like this before,_

 _it's your eyes that I really adore;  
_ _if I say any more, if I say any more—_

 _if I say any more I might just fall in lo—_

 _._

Their apartment has always been – at first glance and despite the amount of funds at their disposal – easily identifiable as the home of two twenty-something _guys_ : clothes forever strewn on the lone couch, a mountain of shoes posing a severe trip hazard in the entryway, and a pile of dishes to one side of the sink.

That was where Gokudera was one morning, standing over the stainless steel tub – he wore a simple white kerchief to hold back his hair and a pair of bright pink rubber gloves, looking for all the world like a disgruntled wife. "Hey, baseball idiot!" he yelled none-too-kindly, leaning back to project his voice down the hall. "You didn't rinse out your cup last night and now there's chocolate syrup goop stuck to the bottom! This is the _third_ time this week, and it's only Tuesday!" With that, he shook a dirty ladle like a weapon in the general direction of his roommate, "I refuse to wash your disgusting dishes!"

There was the muted thump of feet hitting the floor from the next room, and Yamamoto emerged a second later, unperturbed and still in his pajamas. His hair stuck up in all the wrong places, and he lifted one hand to cover a yawn as the other reached beneath the hem of his t-shirt to absentmindedly scratch at his stomach. "Relax, Gokudera, let me get it. It won't happen again–"

"That's what you always say!" the silver-haired man exploded, tossing the ladle back in the sink and beginning to wash vigorously, as if the dishes themselves had offended him, inanimate though they were. "You _always_ say that, but then nothing ever actually changes!" he fumed, suds splashing over the side of the sink to collect in a puddle on the dark gray linoleum.

A minute passed silently, the scent of coffee and dish soap hanging in the air. Yamamoto was not yet awake enough to respond to the shorter man's tirade, and he figured this squall of Gokudera's would blow over as they most often did. So he pulled out a box of cereal and retrieved the milk, setting both on the table. But when he reached over to grab a bowl from the cupboard, he did not miss the disgruntled whisper of, "Maybe one of us should move out."

The cupboard door swung shut, Yamamoto's hand still in midair. "What?"

"I said, maybe one of us should move out." Gokudera's voice had gone even softer, and all dishwashing had ceased, leaving them in an uncomfortable lull. Eventually, he turned to look away – at the coffee pot, at the wall, anywhere but Yamamoto.

The dark-haired man's face was tinged with surprise, and he angled his head to get a better look at Gokudera. "Are you serious?"

There was no response, so he tried again, brows furrowing as he attempted to understand. "Gokudera, are you this upset about a cup?"

At that, the storm guardian whirled back around, face incredulous. "It's not just the cup! It's _so_ much more than the cup!" He removed the gloves and kerchief, tossing them on the counter as he gestured. "It's _you_! Your stuff is everywhere, _you_ are everywhere! I can't get away from you, and I'm sick of you constantly treating me like I'm… like I'm your personal _maid_ or something!"

He ran a hand through his hair, "Well, I'm not, okay?! We've been living together for almost a year, and I can't deal with it anymore. You're always around, _hovering_ , and invading my space with your stuff or your presence or even your _smell!"_ There was a beat of silence, and then he concluded softly, "It's too much. Maybe living together wasn't such a good idea after all… It's just not working out."

Yamamoto did not move, wide brown eyes trained on the other man as he tried to find the words to deny it or apologize or just somehow make things better.

But they were too slow in coming, because before he could say anything, Gokudera pushed past him to the door, muttering, "I need a smoke."

And he was still standing there when the door slammed shut, Gokudera only an afterimage – fleeting snapshot of silver and black and haunting green eyes – burned into his mind.

* * *

Gokudera was finishing his fifth cigarette by the time he calmed down; a collection of the discarded butts at his feet was joined by the current one as he ground it into the pavement beneath his heel.

He had not gone far, just to the alley behind their apartment building – just enough space to get away without feeling like he was _running_ away. Because he wasn't, he told himself as he shook another cigarette from the pack, there was nothing to run from.

Except that there was, and he had pretty explicitly told Yamamoto that is was indeed _him_.

Not for the first time, Gokudera cursed his explosive temper. One hand went to dig in his pocket, and finding his lighter, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling slowly and leaning back against the brick wall.

For all the years they'd known each other, Yamamoto had both irritated and fascinated him, and that was still the case, maybe even to a greater degree. What had taken Gokudera by surprise was the _way_ things had changed since they had moved in together. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea, but as time passed, what he had always hesitantly dubbed a close friendship – which he would never admit aloud, of course – had gradually turned into something… else. He began _noticing_ things, things that someone who was not _just a friend_ would notice, and it absolutely petrified him.

It was the way Yamamoto would do exactly what he had that morning – come into the kitchen with bare feet and bedhead and yet somehow be so _captivating_ ; the way Gokudera felt his pervasive presence when he had used the shower just prior to him – steam still in the air and the overpowering scent of fresh and clean and _Yamamoto_ invading his senses until he ended up leaning against the tiled wall, inhaling it like a drug. And worst of all, it was the way Yamamoto would _smile_ at him, that grin that seemed to say that he was the happiest person in the world, and that it was Gokudera who had made him feel that way.

It was beautiful torture of the worst sort because Gokudera knew it could not be true. He had no delusions about himself – he _knew_ he was over-defensive and over-sensitive and a slew of other things that were no doubt a pain to deal with. And while Yamamoto usually did not let on as to his intelligence or intuition, he knew there was no way the other man could be oblivious; it stung to realize that the rain guardian was simply pretending to be unaware to spare Gokudera's pathetic feelings.

The thought made him feel nauseated, and he put out his cigarette with a vicious stamp of his boot. He needed space. He needed time. And he absolutely needed get his head together.

So he pulled out his phone, rings clicking together as he dialed the number of one person who he knew would help, praying they would answer. As he listened to it ring, he told himself that he was _not_ running away, he was just going to clear his thoughts, get some perspective.

There was the click of the call being picked up, and a sleepy voice on the other end said, "Mm… morning, Gokudera. What's up?"

"Tenth," he replied, a note of relief in his voice. "I need a favor."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi there! Not sure if the KHR! fandom (or 8059 shippers) is/are still alive out there somewhere, but this idea popped in my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it out.

I'm not sure _exactly_ how long this is going to be, but it will be at least 3-4 parts, with each part being between 1,000 and 2,000 words :)

Hope someone out there enjoys!

[And if you find any errors, please let me know, since I don't have a beta! Thank you!]


	2. two

.

 _I'm a slow-motion accident;_

 _I don't want to feel anything,_

 _but I do  
_ _and it all comes back to you._

.

Catatonia did not suit Yamamoto – the stillness of the apartment had grown stagnant just minutes after Gokudera's exit, and he moved slowly, distress like arthritis stiffening his joints.

Mechanically, he put the milk back in the refrigerator, replaced the cereal box in the cabinet, and poured himself a cup of coffee to reheat in the microwave. It would taste burnt, but he was past caring about such a trivial matter; the only thing on his mind was Gokudera.

He continued straightening up as he waited, hanging the rubber gloves to dry, replacing the bandana in a drawer, wiping up the water that had splashed out of the sink – all the while lost in thought. Eventually the timer beeped, startling him. Mug in one hand, he climbed out onto the fire escape and sat down, the rising sun warm on his face.

Obviously, it was not only the cup that had set Gokudera off; it didn't take a genius to figure that out, and the other man had said as much himself. But the "explanation" he'd given only served to worry Yamamoto further. He had thought things had been going wonderfully since they'd moved in together – sure, the apartment was a little messy, but nothing that was out of the realm of normalcy.

What puzzled him most was Gokudera's claim that he was invading his space… All he'd done was be Gokudera's friend, just like he'd always been. He'd be lying if he said that he hadn't tried to be there for him _more_ , but that was only because he _knew_ Gokudera. Yamamoto had noticed the way he'd been looking at him over the past few months, and he'd done his best to show Gokudera that that was all right; in fact, for Yamamoto it was _far_ more than all right, it was more than he had ever hoped for.

But suddenly the thought occurred to him that maybe Gokudera _didn't_ _realize_ that. The man's self-confidence was mostly bluster – Yamamoto had figured that out early on – and perhaps he had not even considered the possibility that not only were his feelings okay, but they were _returned_. Or maybe he had considered it, but it was too frightening for him to acknowledge. Yamamoto sighed, fingers pressed to his forehead. He knew full well that when Gokudera was afraid, it made him all the more likely to lash out in an effort to remain unhurt.

Whatever the case was this time around, all Yamamoto could do was wait for his roommate to come back, and do what he'd always done: give him a little time but remain his anchor, steadfast and unchanging, proving his sincerity by always – ultimately – _staying._ This was the natural push and pull of their friendship, the back and forth of give and take and give some more, and Yamamoto took comfort in the thought that this too would pass.

That decided, he climbed back inside, depositing his mug in the sink and going to the refrigerator to pull out one of the maki rolls that his father had sent over the day before. He sliced it neatly, popping a piece in his mouth before arranging the rest on a plate. Once he'd covered it with plastic wrap, he found a sticky note and jotted down, _Gokudera – thought you might like these. I'll be at the dojo for most of the day; let's talk tonight._

 _Hopefully that will be enough to assuage his insecurities_ _ **and**_ _give him some space without making it seem like I'm abandoning him_ , Yamamoto thought as placed the plate at eye level in the fridge. Passing through the living room, he collected the clothes that were lying about and stripped out of his pajamas, depositing the whole bundle into the hamper.

Naked as the day he was born, the swordsman grabbed a towel and went into the bathroom, turning the water to the hottest setting on full blast. As an afterthought, he lifted his arm to sniff the indent there, shaking his head when he found nothing offensive. _Since when did I have a smell, anyway?_ Yamamoto wondered absently, and then he stepped into the steaming spray, letting the water wash away the rest of his thoughts.

* * *

It was with great relief that Gokudera recognized the sound of the shower running when he reentered the apartment.

Logically, he knew that he would have to face Yamamoto at some point, but at the moment, he was content to let that point be later rather than sooner. Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, he padded to his room as quietly as possible, though what he saw on the way there gave him pause. Yamamoto had _put things away_ , and it almost, _almost_ made him smile, until he remembered why he was sneaking through his own apartment in the first place.

 _But I'm not running away_ , he repeated to himself as he grabbed a duffel bag and began packing it. _I'm just doing my job… Never mind that I_ _ **asked**_ _the Tenth to give me one… But Yamamoto doesn't need to know that._

Things had been slow recently – there had been no major upsets, so they'd been simply keeping an eye on things, keeping the system balanced. Work these days was mostly diplomacy and good relations with other families, plus the occasional favor. But to keep their hard-won peace, they still monitored any individuals or groups that might threaten it, keeping them in check. So when Tsuna had agreed to give him a job, the only one needed was a cakewalk of a surveillance mission. But Gokudera had jumped on it as soon as it was offered, especially since it was in another part of town, which meant he'd be staying at Tsuna and Kyoko's place – all the more reason to do it.

As he meticulously folded his garments, placing them in the bag with great care, he reasoned that it was better this way. Not only would it give him time to think, but it would give Yamamoto a break from him. _He'll probably be happy that I'll be gone for a while._

When he'd packed enough clothes to last him a few days, Gokudera zipped the bag, wincing at the sound. It was then that he realized the shower had stopped running, and he froze, hoping Yamamoto hadn't noticed his return.

But, to his relief, apparently the other man hadn't. There were a few faint sounds of him puttering about in the bathroom, and Gokudera inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring as he did his best _not_ to imagine Yamamoto, towel-clad, stray droplets of water tracing the lines of his his body, only a few yards away from him. Blessedly, there was the distinct sound of him exiting the bathroom, crossing the hallway, and shutting the door to his room behind him.

Gokudera lay back on the bed, silver strands of hair splayed around his head like a halo as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He would have to leave now, before Yamamoto got dressed and left his room. Still more tentative than he would have liked to admit to himself, he slung his bag over his shoulder and slunk into the kitchen.

Hurriedly scribbling on the most conveniently available scrap of paper – a grocery list stuck to the fridge – he wrote, _I have an assignment. Not sure when I'll be back._ Gokudera didn't bother to sign it, instead just leaving it to hang inconspicuously among the the magnets and to-do lists adorning the stainless steel surface.

He heard the tell-tale sound of drawers sliding shut in Yamamoto's bedroom, and quickly went to the door, making sure to close it soundlessly behind him. He didn't want a confrontation, and at that thought, he tried not to grimace as he anticipated the inevitable conversation between the two of them. Swallowing hard, he hefted his bag and disappeared like a mirage into the sunlight.

.


	3. three

.

 _you are my sweetest downfall;_

 _I loved you first._

.

Panting for breath, Yamamoto bent to rest his hands on his knees. He was worn out in the best way – sweaty, muscles hard-used, every cell in his body seeming to vibrate with the electric sense of being _alive_. This, this was something only his sword could give him, and he reveled in the feeling, because it made him _forget._

The man across from him grinned, exposing sharp teeth that promised retribution of the most sinister kind for those who crossed him. In this case, however, it prompted an answering grin from Yamamoto. He straightened, offering, "Want some sake?"

"What kind of question is that?" Squalo replied. "Of course. That is, if you've had enough of me beating you to a pulp."

Chuckling, he answered, "Yes, I've had enough, thank you, _old man_. Go sit on the engawa, I'll bring out the sake and some cups."

"Hey! I'm only eight years older than you; I'll show _you_ who's an old man, you cocky brat!" the swordsman spat, but he made his way to the porch nevertheless, muttering under his breath.

When Yamamoto returned, tray in hand, Squalo was sitting cross-legged, the breeze toying with his long hair and the setting sun casting his face in muted light. "So," he began, pausing to take a sip of the clear liquor. "What's eating you, kid?"

Yamamoto chuckled, eyes disappearing in a smile. "What are you talking about? Nothing's the matter!"

"Cut the crap," Squalo rebutted instantly. "Your happy-go-lucky idiot act might work on other people, but not on me." After a moment of silence, he added, "And maybe not even as well as you thought on them."

Still he did not answer, raising his porcelain cup to down the contents before pouring another and draining it as well. But when Yamamoto went to toss back a third one, the Italian man stopped him.

"Come on, kid. Just tell me."

Setting his cup back down on the tray, he let out a small sigh and leaned back to rest on his elbows. "It doesn't matter," he protested, his voice seeming impossibly small for someone so tall.

"Well, fine then," Squalo said grumpily. Refilling his own sake cup, he paused to take a drink, continuing blandly, "Besides, maybe you're right. Maybe whatever happened between you and that dynamite-loving freak can't be fixed anyway."

At that, Yamamoto sat up straight, color rising in his face as he tried to keep his voice even. "What makes you think it has anything to do with Gokudera?"

Ticking off the points with his fingers, Squalo explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world, "Well, I know nothing happened with your boss. And your old man is fine. Which leaves only one person who you'd care this much about."

There was an unsaid _obviously_ that hung in the air between them, leaving Yamamoto feeling vulnerable and nervous. Was it really so easy to see? Even for someone who lived half a world away?

"Come on, I _know_ you, brat! Now hurry up and tell me what's wrong before I decide to stop caring."

The words were said in a huff, but Yamamoto could sense the underlying motivation there – concern – and chuckled weakly. "I guess you're right," he admitted. "It's been a week since he left, and he hasn't responded to my texts or calls. Tsuna told me that he's fine, but..."

A few moments passed in silence before he said, umber eyes sliding shut and dark brows coming together, "I think I scared him. And I don't know how to fix it."

Lashes parted and the setting sun lit his eyes up with gold as he whispered, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't."

Squalo had remained suspiciously quiet up until that point, but at that, Yamamoto received a whack on the head. "You're such a stupid brat."

One hand clutching where he'd been hit, he gave other man a quizzical look.

With a long-suffering sigh, the silver-haired swordsman explained, "Look. So maybe you scared the kid. It's not the end of the world. Anyone with two eyes and a brain can see that he's crazy about you, too." This was punctuated by a grunt of almost-disgust from Squalo and a sharp inhalation just shy of a gasp from Yamamoto. "But you have to talk to him. And if you can get him to be honest, then I guarantee everything'll be just fine."

Stunned by the openness of his companion, Yamamoto stared for a second before Squalo returned to his usual temperament – "And don't go telling anyone I'm some kind of sap!"

He stood to go. "Well, thanks for the sake," he grinned, "And for letting me beat the daylights out of ya. I'll let you know the next time I'm in town, brat!"

The brunet stood as well, and gave his trademark smile. "Sure. Thanks, Squalo."

As his watched him go, Yamamoto couldn't help but think that he was right. Maybe everything would be alright. But one thing was clear – he had to get Gokudera to talk to him, no matter what means it might take. His face determined, he got up; his feelings weren't half-hearted, and he'd go through anything to get Gokudera back.


End file.
